


where we're going we don't need roads (just 1.21 gigawatts)

by StoriesofmyLife



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: A Christmas Carol AU, A Cobra Kai Christmas, Angst with a Happy Ending, Back to the Future References, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cobra Kai (Web Series) Spoilers, Divorced Daniel, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Movie: The Karate Kid (1984), Romance, Tommy as a ghost, except johnny lawrence style, lawrusso, lots of them - Freeform, the whole fic really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: Johnny’s drunkThat’s the only possible reason he can think of that would even begin to explain why someone is sitting on his sad couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table and munching on the popcorn he’d abandoned on his quest to the kitchen for another Coors.Someone, he knows, for a fucking fact, is dead. Or, at least, is supposed to be dead.--Or, A Christmas Carol AU that no one asked for, Johnny Lawrence style.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso & Johnny Lawrence, Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Robby Keene & Daniel LaRusso, Robby Keene & Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 31
Kudos: 55





	where we're going we don't need roads (just 1.21 gigawatts)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)
> 
> As if having two LawRusso WIPS wasn't enough, I decided to throw another one into the mix because CHRISTMAS!!!
> 
> I've always wanted to write a Christmas themed fic, I just never had the time or the inspiration for one, until now. A Christmas Carol is one of my all time favorite Christmas movies and when the idea came to me to write a my own little Cobra Kai spin off featuring Johnny as the star, well, I couldn't resist. 
> 
> This takes place after the tournament which, in the Karate Kid movies, took place in December, so we're going to roll with that. Also, as always, I edit my own stuff, so please excuse any mistakes I may have made!
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> title taken shamelessly from back to the future. 
> 
> Also, special shout out to writeyourownlifestory for telling me, in all caps to DO IT!!! and helping me flush out the plot for this story and even taking the time to read little snippet here and there. You're a rockstar and I appreciate you SO MUCH <3

_ “Wait a minute Doc, are you tellin’ me you built a time machine...out of a DeLorean?!” _

_ -Marty McFly, Back to the Future: Part 1 _

*

The cheap clock on the wall of his office tells Johnny that school ended an hour and sixteen minutes ago, which means that his advanced class (his  _ only  _ class) should’ve started twenty-two and a half minutes ago. Key word being  _ should’ve,  _ because class starts at four and it’s now—Johnny checks the clock— 4:23 and not  _ one _ of his students has walked through the door of the dojo. 

Not even Miguel, who’s usually comes straight from school to the dojo to help him set up for the days lesson—and by that, he means Miguel does all the  _ setting up _ while Johnny stands back and out of the way, drinking his pre-class beer and doing his own special brand of supervising, which is a nice blend of cracking jokes at the kid’s expense and offering vague insights of where he should put things required for the lesson. 

Afterwards, Miguel will snag a Coke from the mini fridge—depending on the day, Johnny might sneak another Coors or at least start making decent headway into another one—and they’ll sit in his office and shoot the shit for the next hour or so. The topics will vary from Miguel’s love life (despite his entanglement with Miss Nichols, Johnny can see the kid’s still holding a candle for Lady LaRusso. He knows what sad and desperate looks like. He’s been there, done that  _ and  _ bought the t-shirt) to where Johnny is on his journey into the 21st century (he upgraded his VHS player to a DVD player). Then the other kids would trickle in, Miguel would wander off to change and by the time they were done with warm ups, Johnny had a nice buzz going and he’d head out of his office to take his rightful place at the front, facing his quiver of Cobras and class would begin. 

Wash, rise, repeat, that’s the routine. 

Except today, apparently. 

Johnny huffs and grabs for his phone—the stupid smart phone Miguel insisted he get so he could eventually learn to keep up with the dojo’s social media presence, whatever the fuck _ that _ meant—intending text down a message that described just how painful and vomit inducing class is going to be if they don’t get their asses to the dojo in the next five minutes, except—

“Fuck, how do I do this again?” Johnny mutters, swiping and tapping at the screen with fumbling fingers. The phone vibrates angrily when he gets the little design thing wrong, the screen flashing red. “What the fu— _ what do you mean that’s the wrong password?!” _

He swipes at it again, but the stupid thing flashes red once more and this time, the vibration sounds just as frustrated he is. 

“Son of a—“

The bell above the door chimes, pulling his attention away from the stupid device and ultimately saving it from it’s brutal demise by way of his fist smashing it to smithereens all over his shitty second hand desk. 

“You better start talking, Ricky Ricardo,” Johnny warns as he heads out of his office. “‘Cause you got some serious  _ splainin _ ’ to do— _ oh _ ,” he falters, pausing at the edge of the mat. “You’re not Miguel.”

“Sorry to disappoint, _ Lucy,”  _ LaRusso says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s just me. Besides, shouldn't that be _ my _ line?”

Johnny sneers. “Maybe, if you were my keeper.”

“Well, maybe you need one,” LaRusso snipes back, annoyed. “Especially since you don’t seem to know how to pick up a phone when someone calls you—“ he taps at his phone screen a few times. “— _ eight _ times.”

“Careful, LaRusso,” Johnny says with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re coming across a little desperate.”

LaRusso’s face is turning an interesting shade of red, tan cheeks darkening with a flush that spreads all the way down to the collar of his dorky sweatshirt that probably costs more than Johnny’s monthly rent, plus utilities. The vein in his temple is pulsing and Johnny wonders if it’ll burst. He steps back, out of the splash zone, just in case. 

“I was  _ concerned _ , asshole,” LaRusso snaps. “I went by your apartment and you weren't there and when I ran into Miguel, he said he hadn’t heard from you today. So, I tried calling you and you didn’t answer. _ Forgive me _ if I thought something happened to you.”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to roll his eyes. And he does so. _ Hard.  _ “Relax, Danielle,” he says, pushing off the wall to head into the office, hearing the squeak of LaRusso’s sneakers on the linoleum as he follows close behind, clearly not done with his lecture.

_ “Relax? _ You want me to relax? Johnny, I thought something  _ happened _ —“

“Anyone tell you that you worry too much?” Johnny asks as he digs in the mini fridge. He’s got one beer left.  _ Score.  _ “Besides, I didn’t know you cared that much about my well-being.”

He turns just in time to catch the wounded look cross LaRusso’s face before it settles into that careful,  _ everything’s copacetic _ look that probably works with disgruntled customers or harried employees, but not Johnny. It’s the eyes, man. They betray him every time. And right now, those big, dumb eyes are looking at him with nothing but hurt. Guilt wells, hot and sour in his belly, making that first sip of beer last like ash and go down his throat like lead. 

“Of course I care,” LaRusso says and it’s got to be a trick of the light, but it looks to Johnny like the twerp is  _ pouting _ . It’s oddly distracting. “ _ Jesus _ , Johnny, do you really think I’m that heartless?”

_ No,  _ Johnny thinks to himself. Because he knows that LaRusso, for all his frustratingly annoying qualities, is probably one of the most caring people he knows. That he’s got a heart that’s too big for his skinny chest and he’s got this incessant need to  _ fix _ everything—cars, problems,  _ people.  _ Despite everything that happened after the tournament, LaRusso seems to have taken it upon himself to single handedly fix the damage and destruction that thirty-four years of bitterness and resentment had caused. 

They weren’t  _ friends _ , exactly, but they weren’t spray painting any more dicks on billboards, either. And while LaRusso has never really come out and said it, Johnny knows he talked to Zarkarian about getting the rent lowered. Only because the old Russian bastard came by, muttering about meddling guidos, sticking their noses where they don’t belong and Johnny didn’t need anymore context clues to figure _ that _ one out. 

LaRusso sighs and rubs at his eyes. “Look, I didn’t come by here to argue with you,” he pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “Wait—what  _ are _ you doing here, anyway?”

Johnny snorts, taking a sip of his beer. “Uh, believe it or not, LaRusso, some of us actually _ work _ for a living,” he tips the neck of his bottle at LaRusso in a mock toast. “We can’t all be the Auto-King of the Valley.”

LaRusso rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Auto King or not, I still take Christmas Eve off,” he says, eyes flickering around the empty dojo. “I’m surprised you had any students show up,” he clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “It’s a shame. When I was a kid, we didn’t have much, but we had our traditions, values, you know? My ma would’ve killed me if I tried to get out of our Christmas Eve festivities.”

Johnny doesn't choke on the sip of beer he’d just taken, but it’s a near thing. 

“Fuckin’ Millennials, man,” Johnny agrees with a cough. “No sense of respect for anything but their stupid fruit phones.”

LaRusso shoots him a weird look, those big eyes narrowing and roving over Johnny suspiciously. Johnny takes a pointed sip of beer and wills away the shame creeping up his neck, the tips of his ears, making his cheeks feel hot. 

_ “Wait _ —did you—“ LaRusso pauses, squinting. “Did you forget about  _ Christmas?” _

_ “Psshh,  _ what?  _ No! _ ” Johnny denies vehemently. LaRusso makes a strangled noise and he can’t bring himself to look him in the eye, so he looks out the little window his office provides, into the empty lobby. 

There’s a tree that looks suspiciously like the one LaRusso hands out to his customers like party favors and it’s decorated with cheap tinsel and little yellow and black ornaments. There’s even stockings lining the trophy shelf, each one adorned with a student’s name scrawled in loopy, glittery lettering. There’s even one for him, but instead of his name, it’s got _sensei_ emblazoned, in sparkly gold, along the fuzzy white top. 

The whole set up has got Miguel and Aisha written _ all  _ over it. He’ll punish them for it later, for now, he points to it and says, “See? Look, I even decorated. Badass, right?”

LaRusso’s not buying it, not even for a second and it’s only confirmed when he levels Johnny with this  _ look _ that’s just—it’s all sad and disappointed, but times like, ten, because LaRusso’s eyes have their own zip code, they’re so fucking big and Johnny hasn't had enough beer for this. 

“Look, is there a point to this visit?” Johnny demands, crossing his arms self-consciously over his chest. It’s not because he’s feeling defensive. It’s  _ not _ . “Or did you just drop by to yank my chain?”

LaRusso, seeming to come to a conclusion, shakes himself—setting his feet, squaring his shoulders, clenching his jaw, eyes meeting Johnny’s in a way that always makes his jaw ache with the phantom memory of taking an illegal kick to the face. 

A determined Daniel LaRusso never tends to bode well for Johnny. 

“Yeah, I actually came by to invite you to Christmas Eve dinner,” LaRusso answers, chin raised in a way that’s just asking to be punched. “Amanda and Anoush are going on a trip, so I have the kids and you know, Robby’s been staying with me and I thought—you know,  _ maybe _ ,” LaRusso pauses, biting his lip, a flicker of hesitation underneath the determination. “Maybe you’d want to join us?”

He looks up at Johnny, eyes big and wide and full of hope, practically bouncing on the tip of his toes, he’s so eager. 

Johnny sighs and considers his beer before he decides  _ fuck it,  _ downing it in three gulps before tossing the empty bottle in the trashcan with a solid and heavy sounding  _ thunk.  _

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna have to pass,” Johnny says, plopping down into the hard metal chair behind his desk. He pretends to look at some paperworks so he doesn’t have to look at Daniel’s face when he adds, “Thanks for, you know, thinking of me or whatever, but Christmas isn’t really my thing.”

A pause and then, “Not even if it meant you got to spend time with your son?”

It’s said with such a disappointment, with just enough sprinkling of disbelief to make Johnny feel about two inches tall. It’s the same tone Shannon would use, back when Robby was too small to remember the lengths between his visits. Back when he still made an attempt, every few months, to actually try and show up for his son. Back when Shannon still tried to keep him involved in Robby’s life, inviting him to his little league games, reminding him of his daycare schedule, doctors appointments, mundane, everyday things a  _ good _ dad was supposed to take note of and show up for.

Shannon had her own demons, but she tried to be there for their son, oftentimes pulling double duty because Johnny just-- _ couldn’t _ get it together. 

_ “How can you do this, Johnny?”  _ She’d say, in that same sad, disappointed tone that LaRusso managed to nail with one take. _ “How can you keep doing this to your own son?” _

It’s funny, he’s pretty sure LaRusso and Shannon have never met, but somehow, they have the uncanny ability to cut him down with that one key phrase, like it’s his own achilles heel. Wonders, maybe, if they  _ have  _ met without telling him. If they get together over martinis and appetizers and bitch about how much of a shitty, disappointing excuse for a dad he is. 

He also wonders when he went from co-parenting with Shannon to dealing with LaRusso. Bad karma, maybe? Some sick cosmetic joke? Either way, at this rate, he doesn’t know which one he’d rather deal with.

Johnny sighs and rubs at his eyes so hard stars bloom, in technicolor, behind his closed eyelids. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, LaRusso, but my son isn’t exactly my biggest fan right now.” Johnny pauses, before he snorts and adds, almost like an afterthought, “Not that I blame him.”

“Wouldn’t you be angry too? If the roles were reversed?” LaRusso demands, crossing his arms. Or at least, Johnny assumes he crossed his arms. His eyes are still closed, but when you’ve seen LaRusso angry once, you’ve seen it a thousand timesl. 

It’s a valid question and one Johnny knows the answer to without having to think about it, making it that much more difficult to swallow.

“Look, Robby and I were screwed up way before the tournament, okay? I know it’s hard to believe, but I wasn’t winning any father of the year trophies back then and I’m damn sure not going to be winning them now,” Johnny snaps, running an agitated hand through his hair. “Robby doesn’t want me in his life and I don’t blame him. Everyone’s seemed to accept that but you.”

LaRusso scoffs, shaking his head and Johnny can practically hear the Jersey drawl of  _ this fucking guy, can you believe it? _

“You know, it’s funny, you seem to be the only one who thinks that way, John,” LaRusso says, lips pulling down into a frown. “Robby wants you in his life—he may have a funny way of showing, but Jesus, he’s  _ sixteen _ . And he’s angry. If you just  _ tried _ —“

“What, you think I haven’t?” Johnny demands, angry and defensive.. “You think I haven’t— _ attempted _ to be there for him? He doesn’t want me around. And unlike you, I know when I’m not wanted.”

LaRusso sighs, looking weary and tired and totally done with this entire conversation. “You know what? The invitation is there. I want you there— _ Robby, _ wants you there. Whether  _ you  _ want to be there,” LaRusso shrugs. “That’s up to you, but I think the least you can do is try.”

Johnny looks away, down at the piece of paper on his desk—it’s the light bill, he needs to pay that soon—and doesn’t give him an answer, but LaRusso takes it as one.

Another sigh, this one exasperated and just plain  _ over it _ . “Merry Christmas, John.”

The bell chimes before Johnny gets the courage to look up and murmur to the empty room, “yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too,” even though no one’s around to hear it but himself.

*

The thing is, it’s not that Johnny forgot that it was Christmas _ , per say— _ it was a pretty difficult holiday to forget about, what with the supermarkets playing annoying Christmas music the fucking  _ week _ before Thanksgiving, his students chattering about their plans for winter break and don’t _ even _ get him fucking started on all the goddamn traffic that clogged up his usual route home, every one rushing out to max out their credit cards all in the name of holiday cheer—it’s just that he simply chose to ignore it. 

He used to love Christmas, back when it was just him and his mom, in their shitty apartment that his mom tried her damnedest to spruce up with Christmas lights and paper snowflakes made from napkins she’d snag from the diner she worked at. 

They’d sit there for hours, snuggled up underneath the blanket, Christmas music playing from the old kitchen radio, cutting and shaping the thin napkins into the perfect little snowflakes. When they were done, Laura would lift him up and help him tape their creations to the faded walls, at least until he was big enough to do it himself. 

His mom couldn’t afford a real Christmas tree and even if she could, she didn’t want to spend on something she’d eventually have to throw out. So, she improvised—stringing up lights in the shape of a tree was the usual go to, but one year, she snagged a few cans of paint that a neighbor was getting rid of and tacking a few old news papers her boss let her take home from the diner up on the wall, they painted a giant, floor to ceiling Christmas tree on the back of the newspaper. The colors were all wrong, but they were bright and cheerful and it was fun, getting paint everywhere-- themselves, the old sheet Laura had enough sense to put on the floor, their clothes. Johnny can still remember the way his mom laughed when she swiped blue paint on the tip of his nose, the sparkle in her eyes when she stepped back and admired their handy work—a blue Christmas tree, flamingo pink hand prints, yellow dips and swirls, orange polka dots and a white star painted at the the top to finish it off.

_ “Beautiful,” _ She’d whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

Johnny wonders, sometimes, when she took it down after the New Years, if she kept it or if it suffered the same fate all their other things did, once Sid came into their lives—abandoned, traded in, all for the sake of  _ better _

*

Johnny’s drunk—he’s  _ not _ , he’s only on his fourth beer and he doesn’t even feel buzzed, yet. 

But that’s the only possible reason he can think of that would even begin to explain  _ why  _ someone is sitting on his sad couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table and munching on the popcorn he’d abandoned on his quest to the kitchen for another Coors. 

Someone, he knows, for a fucking fact, is  _ dead _ . Or, at least, is  _ supposed _ to be dead. 

“You know,” Tommy says around the mouthful of popcorn he just shoveled into his mouth. “I never realized just how fucking  _ gay _ this movie is.” He gestures to the TV, where Top Gun is playing at low volume, a bunch of damp, half naked guys walking around in a steamy locker room in bright 4K HD. “Iceman and Maverick? Totally boning behind Charlie’s back.”

Johnny blinks. And then blinks again. And a third time, for good measure, but _ nope _ , Tommy’s still there, looking like a goddamn time capsule straight out of 1985. 

“Tommy, what the  _ fuck, _ ” Johnny sputters, grip on his beer tightening in what he refuses to call fear. “You’re dead.”

Tommy looks down at himself—red Cobra Kai jacket, a Van Halen _ Hide Your Sheep  _ tour t-shirt and painfully out of style jeans—and then shrugs and says, “Yeah, so?” like the appearance of his teenaged self in Johnny’s living room, thirty-four years into the future, isn’t completely fucking out of left field.

_ “So?”  _ Johnny demands sharply. “So? Tommy we fuckin’  _ buried _ you. You—you’re—you’re supposed to be  _ dead _ ! And— _ old!”  _ He feels compelled to add. Because the last time Johnny saw him— _ alive _ , he tacks on mentally with a shiver— Tommy had been old and frail and  _ sick  _ and not at all like the Tommy he remembers from their senior year of high school—body thrumming with youthful exuberance and a head full of hair he combed almost religiously between class periods. 

Tommy waves a dismissive hand—like his sudden reappearance in the land of the living is something one can be  _ dismissive  _ of—and shushes him like an indignant soccer mom at the movie theater, eyes never leaving the TV. “This is my favorite part.”

Johnny, despite himself, can’t help but look over his shoulder at the TV screen, where Goose is perched at the piano with Bradley, hammering away at the keys in an attempt to mimic Jerry Lee Lewis as he sings  _ Great Balls of Fire _ at the top of his lungs. 

_ “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain—“ _

“Tommy.”

_ “—too much love can drive a man insane, you broke my will, what a thrill— _

“Tommy.

_ “—goodness gracious great balls of—“ _

_ “Tommy!”  _ Johnny snaps, shifting to stand in front of the TV so it blocks his view.

Tommy glares at him in annoyance, tawny eyes glinting in the dim lighting the shitty lamp by the couch provides and Johnny smirks back at him smugly. 

It promptly gets wiped off his face, however, when he’s sent flying sideways into the wall and lands in a crumpled heap next to the dusty bookcase that houses all his records and worn VHS tapes. Then it’s Tommy’s turn to look smug, which he does, for all of five seconds, before his attention goes back to the TV, just in time for Meg Ryan to say,  _ “Goose, you big stud, take me to bed or lose me forever!” _

“Fuck, man,” Tommy groans, eyes wide and definitely  _ not _ focused on good ol’ Meg’s face, but rather, the low cut sundress that emphasizes her  _ more than a handful  _ bust line. “She’s so  _ hot _ .”

Johnny rolls his eyes and with a grunt, manages to stand up from the dingy carpet. His back twinges with the movement, but he ignores it in favor of aiming a glare at the side of Tommy’s face. 

“Dude, what the fuck was that?” Johnny demands, waving his hand at the wall for emphasis. 

Tommy doesn't even spare him a glance. “It’s my ghost powers, dude. Sorry if the landing was a little rough, I’m still learning to control it.”

He doesn’t, in fact, sound all that sorry but Johnny’s too focused on the words _ ghost _ and  _ powers _ to really care about the sincerity of the apology. 

_ Am I high?  _ Johnny wonders desperately to himself, despite the fact that it’s been literal _ years _ since he’s smoked anything but the occasional cigarette he’d bum off a hot babe when his usual tried and true method— bump into her hard but not too hard—didn’t work. _ Rosa’s got the good shit, maybe some of it seeped through the walls and it’s like, second hand— _

“You’re not high,” Tommy says dismissively, digging through the couch cushions in search of the remote, a furrow between his brows. “And before you ask, you’re not drunk, either.”

Johnny’s pretty sure he’s doing a pretty impressive impression of a fish floundering for air; mouth opening and closing, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides as he tries to get a grip on just  _ what the fuck _ is going on. 

Tommy gives up the search with an annoyed huff and Johnny thinks that’s it, but then he snaps his fingers and the remote appears from underneath the arm of the couch and lands in his awaiting hand.

_ How the fuck did he do that? _

He brandishes it with a flourish, like one of those _ Price is Right _ girls , shooting Johnny a triumphant grin. “Ghost powers, man,” he says, shaking his head in marvel, “they’re _ awesome.” _

Johnny feels like he’s going pass out, but that’s pussy shit, so he compromises by collapsing in a hyperventilating heap on the coffee table. The piece of shit groans underneath his weight, but he’s too out of it to care if it breaks. 

“So, you’re—“ Johnny flounders and wonders why he can’t bring himself to say the word  _ ghost _ . “—not dead?” he settles on.

Tommy snorts, eyes scanning the TV guide in search of something new to watch. “Dude, I’m as dead as a doornail.” 

Johnny flinches at his candor, but Tommy misses it, eyes still scanning the endless selection of channels. It’s only when he finally lands on something he deems worth of watching that his eyes finally meet Johnny’s and despite the humor, there’s a sadness that lurks just underneath the surface, a reluctance that makes Johnny’s heart twinge. 

“I was brought back to—well, not _ life,” _ Tommy falters, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “But this kind of—in between stage, I guess is the best way to put it. I’m a ghost but— _ more,”  _ he pauses. “Does that make sense?”

_ None of this makes sense, _ Johnny thinks to himself shakily.  _ You were dead, I saw you and now you’re here and this is too much— _

“I know it’s a lot and I wish I could explain it to you, but—“ he eyes the clock on the wall. “—if we’re going to make it through all of our stops, we’ve got to get going.”

“What?” Johnny demands, his heart picking up speed in his chest.  _ “Go? _ Go where? Tommy—“

Tommy ignores him, standing up from the lumpy couch and heads for the door. 

“Tommy— _ wait _ , what’s going on?” Johnny asks and if it were anyone else, he’d be embarrassed by just how pleading and dare he say it,  _ scared _ he sounds. 

But this is  _ Tommy.  _ The same Tommy who was there when he threw up the first beer he ever shotgunned, who listened to him gush about Ali for hours before he nutted up and finally asked her out, who listened to him rant and rave when Ali had broke his heart, who helped him plot all the possible ways to make LaRusso pay, ridiculous as they were, who made him laugh through his tears that night after the All Valley, when it felt like his entire world had gone up in flames.

Bobby may have been the best of all of them—the brains, the logic, always there to talk them out of trouble, rather than get them into it—but Tommy was their heart. Their soul. He was quick to temper and even quicker to forgive, loud and sarcastic with a wit sharp enough to cut glass and loyal to a fault, he’d fight and die for any of them in a heartbeat, no questions asked and he’d do it with that bright smile that always spelled trouble for whoever it was aimed at. 

And right now, that smile is aimed at him as Tommy opens the front door and summons Johnny’s old red leather Cobra Kai jacket from the hidden archives of his bedroom closet. Tawny eyes twinkling and eyebrow quirked, he lets it dangle between them, a silent taunt, like a matador waving a cape at a bull.

“Do you trust me?” Tommy asks daringly. 

And well, Johnny’s never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“With my life,” Johnny answers honestly and just a tad bit ironically.

Reaching out, he grabs the worn leather from Tommy’s hands and slides it over his shoulders and it fits like a glove, even after all this time.

Tommy’s grin grows. 

“Then hold on tight.”

It’s all the warning he gets before he feels an odd tugging sensation behind his belly button and then they’re flying, out the front door of his apartment, through the courtyard and past the fountain full of piss, disappearing into the night sky with a childish  _ whoop _ ! of excitement from Tommy and a terrified shriek from Johnny that would do Jamie Lee Curtis proud and one he’ll deny to till his dying day. 

_ Which might be today _

They crash land in an alleyway littered with trash and broken beer bottles, bodies slamming and stumbling into each other and Johnny has to lock his knees and plant his feet in order to avoid toppling them both ass over tits in a pile of garbage that’s overflowing from the overpacked dumpster to his left. 

_ “Jesus, _ Tommy,” Johnny huffs. “What the hell was  _ that?” _

“Sorry,” Tommy says sheepishly. “Time travel is easy, it’s the whole  _ landing _ part that I’m still trying to get the hang of it.”

Johnny groans when he stands upright, head spinning, body swaying precariously and he has to scrabble for purchase on the cold, grimy wall of the building. He feels like he woke up after a long night of drinking—disoriented, nauseous and still kind of drunk—and it takes his muddled brain a minute to process Tommy’s words, but when he does, his head whips up and he lets out a noise that sounds like Miguel on the brink of an asthma attack. Kind of feels like it, too, even though Johnny’s never had asthma. 

_ “Time travel?!”  _ Johnny demands, incredulous. “Tommy, man, I think you’ve been watching a little bit too much Back to the Future, okay? ‘Cause there’s no such thing as  _ time travel _ —“ he laughs nervously, eyes roving over the alleyway. “—I mean that’s just—that’s just not possible,” when Tommy just blinks at him blankly, Johnny adds, weakly, “Right?”

Tommy rolls his eyes as he walks past him, towards the mouth of the alleyway, leaving Johnny to have his mental breakdown in peace. He sticks his head out of the alleyway, checking left, then right, before he turns back to Johnny, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand there catching flies?”

Tommy doesn't wait for an answer, however, hanging a right out of the alleyway and disappearing around the building, down the sidewalk, giving Johnny two options: to follow him or to stay behind in the alleyway with his mouth gaped open like a dumbass. 

“God damn it, Tommy,” Johnny mutters to himself, rubbing at his eyes.

He knows going home isn't an option—he’s seen enough movies to know this shit doesn't just unwind itself and LaRusso sold him a Challenger, not a DeLorean, after all—and he’s way too curious for his own good. 

So he does the only thing he really  _ can _ do. 

He follows. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any guesses to where they ended up? ;)
> 
> I realize my timeline is a little skewed because Tommy doesn't die until the second season, but I couldn't resist using him as a ghost. He was my first and only choice for the job. 
> 
> This fic should be updated regularly--I have the second chapter half way written and all the others outlined. My original plan was to have it all written before posting but I work in retail and my work schedule hasn't allowed a lot of free time due to the holidays, so this will probably wrap up around NYE, but I hope to have it finished before then. 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Until next time :)
> 
> Find me on:   
> tumblr: @victimofthemusic  
> discord: storiesofmylife#7629  
> And now Twitter: @storiesofmylif9 
> 
> Don’t be shy! Come say hi! :)


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